


^test subject⌄

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Force Feeding, Gen, Heavy Subject Matter, Mental Health Issues, Sad Sad, Side Effects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm struggles finding an acceptable combination of medications to manage hallucinations.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Force Feeding.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	^test subject⌄

“Time to drink this,” Gil indicated, tapping the back of Malcolm’s chair and holding out a large solo cup with a straw.

Malcolm looked up, his eyes resigned to the reality. He gave a soft nod and reluctantly took the cup. The contents smelled awful, their artificial scent turning his stomach. The pale pink color did little to make it any better.

“You can come sit in my office if you want,” Gil offered. “Take a few minutes, stretch out.”

Malcolm accepted and followed Gil back to his office, slow moving, limbs jittery. Malcolm lowered himself onto the couch, the cushions comforting under his tired legs. “Stay,” Malcolm requested when Gil moved to leave.

Gil crossed to his desk chair, sitting beside him.

Malcolm braved the drink, taking a tentative sip. He immediately gagged at the taste, and it was an effort to force himself to swallow. He coughed into his elbow shortly after, a high-pitched wheeze. Only 100 more sips to go. At least it felt like it.

“Is there anything I can do to make it any easier?” Gil asked.

“Drill a hole in my stomach and pour it straight in?” Malcolm joked, going for another sip and coughing again.

“Think I left it in the car,” Gil teased back.

The texture was chalky, the aftertaste worse than Pepto-Bismol, the stomach feel absolute revolt. Malcolm’s insides tensed at its presence, though logically he knew it could be because of his agita, not the liquid. He couldn’t get any of it down without coughing, his body rejecting it.

“When do you go back?” Gil inquired.

“Friday. They’re gonna take me off if I can’t keep this down.”

He’d dropped ten pounds, at least. His belt was pulled in tighter, his pants were loose, his cheeks were sharper. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“I haven’t seen him in…four weeks.” Malcolm ran the mental calculation since Dr. Whitly had last appeared.

“You haven’t eaten either.”

“Yeah, there’s that.” Malcolm shrugged and took another sip, wincing at the taste and commenting on it. “Reminds me too much of when Jackie was really sick.”

“At least I took it out of the package for you.”

Like he did every time. Malcolm nodded.

“Any dizziness today?”

“Only when I stand.”

Malcolm’s sips slowed even though Gil knew he was nowhere near finished. He hacked several times into his elbow, wheezing taking over his breaths. 

“Do you want a different flavor?” Gil asked.

“They’re all equally awful.”

“Different brand?”

“People in _space_ eat better than this goop,” Malcolm quoted, sharing a half smile with Gil.

“She was right, huh?”

“ _Definitely_.”

Rolling coughs went into Malcolm’s elbow, his chest clenching and releasing as he wheezed.

“That sounds worse,” Gil commented.

“It’s — “ He paused to hold back another cough. “ — there.”

“Usually at meals. Did you say something?”

Malcolm shook his head.

“You should.”

Malcolm sat quietly sipping, knowing he needed to make his best attempt to finish it all so he could keep working. Gil let him be, reading through a case file. The only sounds that breached the room were his coughs, ever-present after each swallow.

Malcolm stood to return to his desk and swayed forward, Gil catching him by the shoulders. “You good?”

“Yep, just a second.” Malcolm held a finger up.

The darkness disappeared from his vision and the floor stopped reaching up for him. His stomach felt heavy, the liquid a leaden pool. “You can sit another minute,” Gil suggested.

“I’m fine.” Malcolm trudged forward, dropping his cup into the garbage to join the empty Ensure bottle on the way to the hall.

“I’ll be back with dinner,” Gil called behind him.

“I’m sure it’ll be equally tasty.” Malcolm waved, continuing back to his desk.

* * *

Malcolm sat in a cushioned chair, his legs and arms crossed, trying to hold his shaking at bay, but it wiggled out anyway. The wingback presented as more comfortable than it was, the buttons rough under his hips.

“You need to stop,” the psychiatrist explained.

Malcolm gave a small nod. He knew the news was coming.

“You’re experiencing dysphagia from the antipsychotic. Uncommon side effect.”

Wonderful. After all the warning of potential weight gain, his latest drug regimen had somehow worsened his eating habits.

“Your cough is likely from liquid entering your airway.”

So ignoring it was probably the wrong approach.

“We’ll try a different combination.”

Nothing else had worked.

“You’re getting too sick.”

Was physically sick somehow worse than mentally sick?

“Pneumonia would put significant stress on your body, and lack of food _will_ kill you.”

Wouldn’t the hallucinations too?

“Stop immediately, and you should see rapid improvement in your symptoms. Then we’ll start on something new.”

Nothing worked.

“Mr. Bright?”

Malcolm focused on the doctor’s face instead of spacing out over her shoulder.

“We’re going to start you on a new medication.” She spoke louder, slower, as if the problem was inability to interpret sound at her decibel.

“I don’t want to,” his voice was quiet, as if saying his thoughts aloud would bring repercussions he wouldn’t be able to defend.

His father was gone from his daily life, shoved back into the cell whence he came. No one crawled out of boxes — his younger self had gone back to bed.

“You _need_ to. Your body can’t tolerate this medicine. I would have taken you off it already if you had shared your symptoms.”

“I can stick it out a little longer.” He could be brave, and tough, and all the things his mother had taught him to get through each dreadful day at school. The tactics still worked to help him manage all these years later.

“You’ve lost 15 pounds now. Your frame can’t stand to lose any more. You could get aspiration pneumonia.”

“I _feel_ better.”

“Mr. Bright, we can find something else that works.”

They couldn’t.

“You should swap meds tonight.”

He shouldn’t.

“I’d like to see you next week and we’ll reassess.”

They wouldn’t.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

She painted on a face of compassion from the depths of her highly trained mind. “Hang in there.” She handed him an appointment card. “Have a good day.”

He completed the ritual forced smile and nod, plastering it on to compete for best, and saw himself out.

He was on the phone with the next psychiatrist as soon as he got in the car.

* * *

Malcolm made it three days in his apartment before his mother charged in, speaking before the door had even closed behind her. The problem of getting rides from Adolpho was permeable walls. Even though he didn’t mean malicious intent, his mother had a way of getting information out of people _accidentally_.

“You didn’t like the answer you got from Mommy, so you went to Daddy?” Jessica accused. “My, you learned from the best.”

“Mother — “

“This ends with you in a hospital with a feeding tube. Is that the attention you want? You could just ask for a hug, dear,” her concern dripped off her tongue as disdain, poisoning him with love.

“It’s not that — “

“It is. Stop the pills, or Gil stops the cases,” she threw down her ultimatum, grinding her foot into the floor.

“Mother, you can’t use your — “

“Watch me,” she threatened, her eyes sparking to laser through his.

He wheezed into his elbow, proving her point that he hadn’t stopped _yet_. He was getting the best out of the last few pills before he’d be forced to switch when they ran out.

“No more doctor hopping. Make it work this time.”

He’d try. He had a new appointment — maybe the next doctor would work out better.

Her point across, she toned down her tirade. “I restocked your fridge while you were out. There’s a coffee flavor I thought you might like better.”

He wouldn’t.

“When you feel up to it, I’ll bring you your favorites.”

When would that be?

She looked over him on the stool. “You seem so quiet.”

What was he supposed to say? Hooray? “You’ve said enough for the both of us.” Malcolm tipped an imaginary glass at her.

“I just want the best for you.”

“I know.” Didn’t make things any easier.

The door clicked behind her on her way out.

* * *

The revolving door of medications and dosages brought a tedium that no one could survive for long. Curtailing the hallucinations brought along with it appointment after appointment that constrained Malcolm’s life. He wanted to be at work, not waiting for more bad news in a doctor’s office.

Medications worked somewhat, sometimes, occasionally. He felt sick always, sometimes, every once in a while. Physical and mental wellbeing never seemed to line up.

“This seems like the best combination. Let’s keep trying this another month,” the psychiatrist told him.

It wasn’t.

“Keep eating a bit more — I’d still like to see your weight come up some.”

He couldn’t.

“Keep journaling to track how you’re feeling.”

There was page, after page, after page —

“And I’ll see you in four weeks.”

She wouldn’t.

Would he make it that long?

* * *

Months of experimenting with a new psychiatrist, and Malcolm only felt worse. He left the conference room when Dr. Whitly kept poking his head in the door, only to find he also liked to stand in the records room beyond his desk, staring out at the whole bullpen.

Dani stopped by, her hand resting beside his papers he couldn’t concentrate on. “You good?” she asked, her eyes watching his.

He looked away, his words too harsh to tell her directly. “Ever think life is all one big, fucking disaster?”

“That bad, huh?”

“I can be crazy or I can be hungry.” He blew out a frustrated breath and tugged on his hair, messing it up into a state as frayed as his mind.

“You shouldn’t say — “

“I can’t be _fixed_.” Both of his hands shook in front of his face, trying to hide and express his exasperation at the same time.

“Bright — “

He shook his head and looked at the ground. “I’m sorry, it’s not a good day.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” her voice carried so much patience, and yet he failed to look at her to thank her for being there.

His hands trembled. He couldn’t stop them, no matter how hard he squeezed them together. His body just kept betraying him.

“Can — “

“I need to go for a walk.” He pushed past her and disappeared through the entrance, not looking back.

* * *

“Gil — I went home,” Malcolm explained, holding his phone against his ear, completely burrowed under a weighted blanket on his bed.

“Are you safe?”

“Snug as a bug in a rug.” His laugh lacked all humor.

“Can I do anything?”

Make it stop.

“Kid?”

“Can you come by for dinner?” A small request he feared might be denied like so many other little things in his life that had snowballed to one _big_ thing. He wanted Gil to be the one to help him with a ride, but he didn’t want to risk that conversation until they were face to face.

“Of course.”

* * *

Gil let himself in when his knock at the door went unanswered. Found a blanket pile in the middle of the bed, a rough shape of a Malcolm underneath.

“Kid?” he spoke, approaching with ample noise.

“Didn’t make it up yet,” Malcolm’s words emerged, muffled from inside the blanket.

Gil took a guess at where his head was and reached out, ending up connecting with an arm before he reached the top of his back that he was looking for. He rubbed a small circle, giving Malcolm the chance to object. When he didn’t, he kept looping in place.

The door clicked across the room, and Gil looked up to Jessica striding toward the kitchen. “Malcolm! Where are you dear, I — “ She stopped as soon as her eyes found Gil sitting on the edge of Malcolm’s bed. “What is — “ Her face fell, puzzlement taking over her eyes.

The blankets tensed under Gil’s hand. “Jessica — “

“Malcolm,” concern flooded her voice, her feet taking her over to the bed. She sat on the window side of his form and put her hand next to Gil’s.

“Mother — “ came out of the blanket.

“Tell me what hurts,” her voice carried the care of someone willing to do anything to stop the pain.

It wasn’t that easy.

She ran her hand back and forth near his shoulder. “I’ll get you whatever you need.”

She couldn’t.

“Dear, please say something,” she pleaded.

What words were there?

“Malcolm — “

“It’s not a good day.” Malcolm’s voice was muffled in the covers. And like it was any other day, he asked, “Could you come back later?”

She reached under the blanket and found his hand, taking it between hers.

“Mom — “

“It’s okay,” she soothed, running her thumb over the back of his hand.

“I’m tired.”

Gil’s arm reached across to Jessica, laying a comforting hand on her back.

“I know, dear. I know.”

They sat with him, united reinforcements taking watch on either side of the bed until he was able to come out.

The blanket peeled back to his hair in four directions, his eyes carrying darkness he could never get rid of, his frame still missing several pounds.

“I’m just gonna — “ He pointed toward the bathroom and slid down to the end of the bed, tipping himself onto the floor. He padded across the loft, closing the door behind him.

“He has to see someone else,” Jessica said, standing, intent on calling the best doctor she could find.

Gil rose and stood in front of her, cautiously reaching for her shoulders. Jessica let him pull her in for a hug, resting her head into his shoulder.

“He came home, got himself some space, took a break. I know it looks awful right now, but all of that’s progress,” Gil said into her hair, trying to find the positive side of the situation.

“He never should have gone back to see his father,” Jessica pointed out again, a sore spot between them.

“That was my mistake.” He rubbed the middle of her back, trying to offer comfort she wouldn’t ask for.

“My son makes his own terrible decisions.”

He rested the side of his head on top of hers, being there for her as much as he had been for her son, his kid.

Malcolm emerged in a hoodie pulled down to his eyes, sweatpants, and moccasins on his feet. “I need to take a few days,” he said, looking at the window instead of either of them.

They pulled apart and spoke at the same time, Gil with, “Whatever you need,” and Jessica with, “Of course.”

“I don’t know if that’ll be enough.” He scratched his shoulder, second-guessing his statement already.

“Take as much as you need,” Gil offered.

“I’m going back to inpatient,” Malcolm ripped off the bandaid like he had pulled off the blanket. “I need someone to take care of Sunshine.”

“Dear — “ Jessica started, but stopped when Gil held his hand up at her.

“I will. Let us take you,” Gil suggested.

“Yeah, uh — “ Malcolm turned around and opened a few drawers. “ — give me a couple minutes.”

Malcolm collected the most basic pieces that fit the hospital’s stringent clothing requirements into a small suitcase. He closed it up, stood, and walked over to pet Sunshine’s head through her cage. “You be well, girl,” he cooed, scritching her back. Then he faced the door and shared, “I’m ready.”

Gil took the bag from him and rubbed the back of his neck. His mother looped her arm through his, and together, they left the loft.

Dr. Whitly followed Malcolm out the door.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
